“That is not a surprise.” He smiles. “But you are not usually this quiet.”
“Not much to say, I guess.” My eyes drift ahead to the front of the line where Abarrane and Zander ride, side by side. He didn’t say a word when he saw me perched behind Elisaf, his face unyielding as he swiftly climbed onto his horse. I couldn’t tell if he was bothered or relieved.
Directly behind them is Gesine, her cloak drawn and firmly fastened despite the heat, likely to hide her gold collar. She’s sharing a saddle with the mountain of a man whose ribs she fused earlier, a warrior named Horik, I’ve learned. His hulking frame makes her willowy one look childish by comparison.
I desperately need to talk to her, but it seems Zander is doing his best to keep us apart. Not that we could have a real conversation about anything with all these ears around.
“How much longer until our next break?” I can’t seem to get my bearings. I thought Bellcross was northeast, yet I would bet money we’re traveling south. Then again, there are sometimes two moons in the sky in this world, a truth that makes me doubt all I know.
“There is a town beyond that ridge ahead. We should reach it before daybreak. That is where we will stop for supplies.”
“You mean, for blood.”
His shoulders lift with a sigh. “For all necessities.”
And mortal blood is a necessity for every single one of these fierce warriors. They may appear relaxed, but I’ve seen their hands reaching for the pommels of their blades too many times to be misled. Everyone is on edge, as if expecting to crest a hill and find an army waiting, despite the scouts sent ahead to sound alarms should they need to.
But how will these townsfolk respond to a line of warriors strolling through, demanding their veins?
Even with my worries, my curiosity is piqued. Aside from Eldred Wood, I haven’t seen beyond Cirilea. The Islorians I’ve been exposed to so far have left much to be desired. Pompous lords and ladies angling for power, clueless nobility who come to the castle for the parties and the royal grounds, humans enslaved to work the market for their greedy and cruel keepers.
Hooves pound against the road behind us, announcing a rider advancing quickly.
My stomach clenches as Jarek sidles up next to us on a white horse painted in swirls of dried blood, the pattern too specific to be accidental. I dread to think who unwittingly provided the art supplies.
The sides of his freshly shaved scalp show off a silver scar that runs horizontally along his hairline. I assume a merth blade did that. The three thick braids that gather the hair at his crown, he’s fastened into a ponytail with leather bands.
“Tell me, what is waiting for us in Venhorn, besides saplings?” His attention is on Elisaf, not sparing me so much as a glance. I’m fine with that.
Sapling. That’s what they called the man who tried to drown Annika the night I arrived.
“Perhaps a demon or two?” Elisaf’s tone is flippant. He doesn’t seem bothered by the second-in-command’s menacing presence.
“Or perhaps more of the princess’s co-conspirators?” His sooty eyes shift to me, skimming my neck.
My shoulder, I realize, as they flare with recognition. The gruesome claw marks earned from the daaknar are visible. I fight the urge to adjust my shirt collar. There’s no point hiding them beneath Dagny’s capelets anymore, not that I have any. “Why don’t you ask your commander? She’s up there.” Abarrane must have told him that the Ybarisan soldiers are hiding in the mountains with vials of my toxic blood, so what’s the point of these questions?
“I hope you’re not expecting to find any allies. Even your brother has turned on you.” Jarek studies my jaw in an assessing manner, the corners of his mouth curling.
“I’ll bet you two thought my face getting smashed against those bars was funny.” If that’s the case, they’re no better than the likes of Tony.
“We both thought it deserved.”
My anger is a stinging prick at my throat. “You both can go fuck yourselves.”
His amusement drops from his face. “Asha is dead because of you. And you are a traitor to all.” Jarek nudges his horse, and it speeds toward the front of the line.
“That’s one way to get rid of him.” Elisaf checks over his shoulder, his big brown eyes tinged with sympathy. Or maybe pity.
I release a shaky breath. That won’t be the last time Jarek confronts me, I’m sure. “What’s a sapling?”
“The worst of our kind.”
I wait a few beats for more information. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not especially.” He scans around us, but the warriors have given us ample space, whether by coincidence or design. More likely the latter. They want nothing to do with me. “They are Islorian immortals who feed off their own kind.”
My eyes widen. “By own kind, you mean …”